


which are called accident, which are called immortality, which are called a kind of roots

by zrenia



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, haha - Freeform, i guess? a bit of comfort?, no beta we die like c!tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zrenia/pseuds/zrenia
Summary: And Tubbo’s not dumb, okay? He knows grief and he knows its different stages, and he knows that this sounds a hell of a lot like denial. But it isn’t. It’s not, because Tommy will come back.or:Tubbo, on grief
Relationships: Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	which are called accident, which are called immortality, which are called a kind of roots

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from rug/hydrangea by alexander vvedensky

Grief is a funny thing, Tubbo realizes.

Well, maybe funny isn’t exactly the right word, but you get it. Bizarre. Weird. 

Sam tells him that Tommy’s dead, and for a horrible, gut-wrenching moment, all he can do is stand there, the warden’s words bouncing around his head.

_ Tommy’s... gone _

And then, he snaps back to reality. Tommy can’t be dead. He can’t be, not now. Not after they’ve finally defeated Dream, not after they  _ won _ . That’s not how it works, right? The heroes win, the villain is defeated, and then it’s happily ever after, right?

(A little voice in his head reminds him that this is real life, not a children’s fairytale, and that life is often unfair. He ignores it)

Because… Tubbo has already gone through thinking that Tommy’s dead. He’s already mourned him, and grieved, and had gotten to the point where he thought  _ maybe I can move on _ . And then, Tommy reappeared. Angry and resentful, yes, and spitting words full of vitriol, but he was there,  _ alive _ . Tubbo doesn’t think that anything could rival the sheer relief he felt after the initial shock had worn off. 

So yeah. He’s gone through this whole song and dance before, and he won’t do it again. What’s the point when Tommy’s just going to come back anyway? He’d walk up to him, with a stupid grin on his face, and he’d say “What, did you really think I was dead?”

He will. 

And Tubbo’s not dumb, okay? He knows grief and he knows its different stages, and he knows that this sounds a hell of a lot like denial. But it isn’t. It’s not, because Tommy will come back. 

He leads Ranboo away from Sam, babbling on about the hotel, and he can tell that Ranboo’s staring at him. He doesn’t want to look up and see the pity on his face, because Ranboo has always worn his emotions as clear and as easy to read as an open book. He doesn’t want that pity, he doesn’t want to see it, because then he’ll have to explain that he doesn’t need it, and how can he explain that without sounding like… well, like he’s in denial. 

But he’s not and he’s right. He’s  _ right. _

He goes back to the hotel and starts working on it with renewed vigour. Ranboo wanders off, eyes distant, after a while. He doesn’t stop him.

He works on the hotel until the sun sets, and then a bit more, until he physically can’t go on. Only then does he return to Snowchester. He collapses into bed, but despite how bone-tired he is, sleep evades him. When it finally comes, it’s plagued by nightmares. They’re not loud or gory or theatrical. They’re just empty. Somehow, that leaves him even more shaken.

Two days pass, and Tubbo spends them in the same way. Wake up in a cold sweat after a night of empty dreams, eat (if he can bring himself to), head to the hotel, work on it until he’s ready to collapse, and then go back home to bed and the emptiness that greets him in his sleep.

In all his comings and goings, he pointedly avoids Tommy’s house. Whenever he has to pass by it, he gives it a wide berth. It just doesn’t feel right, to be near it when his best friend’s larger-than-life presence isn’t there. Ranboo’s worried about him, he can tell. He sees it in his eyes and the pursing of his lips, and in how he tries to coax him away from his work to take a break. But he’s fine! He’s just filling his time until Tommy comes back, which shouldn’t take too long. Tommy wouldn’t do that to him. At least, not again.    
The third day starts like the past two. He’s making a lot of progress on the hotel, and he can’t wait until Tommy can see how nice it looks. Night falls, and he grudgingly starts heading home. As much as he would like to keep working, his body is shutting down on him, and he’d prefer to not die to a random mob. That would be really funny, to survive so much only to be killed by his senses failing him. After a moment of hesitation, he decides to take the main path. It’s much faster, not to mention safer than a roundabout way. 

He still keeps his eyes resolutely in front of him. As he walks by Tommy’s shack, he catches a glimpse of red and white out of the corner of his eye, and his heart jumps into his throat. Pivoting on his heels, he turns to face the little dirt house. There are red and white flowers planted along the short path that leads to the door.

For some reason, that’s when the realization hits him like a freight train, unyielding and unrelenting. 

_ Tommy is dead and he’s not coming back he’s dead and he’s not coming back he’s not coming back- _

He collapses on his knees right there on the Prime Path. 

_ (He’s dead. Sam said that he saw the body Sam wouldn’t lie about this he’s dead) _

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, pebbles digging into his knees, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, vision blurry, and furiously wipes at his eyes. Ranboo looks down at him, eyes misty. 

“Let’s get you home,” he says softly, gently maneuvering him to his feet. 

Tubbo nods shakily, breath hitching.

Grief is a funny thing, Tubbo realizes.

It's mostly internal, but it can be found in flowers dotting a path and lingering glances and a body sore from ceaseless work, trying to distract the mind from the inevitable. 

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY so. this is my first fic ever and I'm lowkey rlly proud of it even if its short:]  
> I'm not sure if the title fits but listen it sounds nice and it's from my favourite poem (which u should read btw its here: https://poems.com/poem/rug-hydrangea/)  
> also I haven't watched tubbo's most recent stream so this could be a complete contradiction of it I hope its not


End file.
